


The Back Page

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Interrogation, Torture, it's for the hiding an injury square but i don't see a canonical tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: Fusco’s done a lot for the guy in the suit and his pal in the glasses, and in the course of that he’s been hit, knocked out, stabbed, shot, and a whole lot of other shit he doesn’t want to get into. These days, if he comes home for the night with the same number of holes he had when he left the apartment that morning, he’s calling it a win.





	The Back Page

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'Hiding An Injury' square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card!

At this point, broken ribs are back page news. 

Fusco’s done a lot for the guy in the suit and his pal in the glasses, and in the course of that he’s been hit, knocked out, stabbed, shot, and a whole lot of other shit he doesn’t want to get into. These days, if he comes home for the night with the same number of holes he had when he left the apartment that morning, he’s calling it a win. 

Here’s the thing: apparently it’s not normal to get hurt that goddamn much. Fusco knew that at one point, but when you’re wrapped up in the middle of your new normal, it’s hard to remember what the old normal was like. He got punched less, he’s pretty sure. But these days, he feels better overall. Figure that out.

But people want to know: hey Fusco, where’d you get that shiner? Why you limping? Why you using so many sick days? Not like a  _ lot  _ of people. Nobody’s beating down his door or anything; they’re just making conversation. But it’s  _ enough  _ people asking loudly enough that Fusco feels like he’s gotta explain sometimes.

So Fusco walks into a lot of doors. Trips over his kid’s sporting equipment from time to time. He spins a car accident every so often, but that’s just for big emergencies. Nobody wants to be the car accident guy.

Mostly, he’s not hurt at all. He’s off-the-books hurt, secret hurt, slamming ill-gotten Percocets that he diligently cuts in half so it’s just enough to take the edge off but not so bad he’s dopey and sick all day. He grits his teeth. He moves carefully. And he gets through the day with his broken ribs - all four of them - by hook or by crook.

Speaking of which…

Fusco’s not sure what tipped Simmons off. Not that he’s such a master of deception; it could have been a couple of things. Could’ve been that he spotted the Ziploc baggie of pills as Fusco slid it back into his jacket pocket coming out of the restroom, or maybe he caught an eyeful of the purple-black bruises on Fusco’s side when he lifted his shirt in the locker room, although Fusco was pretty sure he was alone when he changed shirts. Maybe he just saw Fusco wincing, or noticed a change in his walk, although if that’s the case, it’s a problem, ‘cause he counts on Simmons having better things to do than to watch him all day.

Either way, there’s two fingers digging hard into his side all the sudden, sharp pain knifing through him, and Simmons is asking, half-casual, “What happened here, Lionel?”

Fusco grips the locker door so hard his knuckles go white and swallows, choking down a grunt of pain. “Dunno what you’re talking about, Simmons,” he says as he slams his locker shut. His voice comes controlled. A little tight, but he’s like that with Simmons anyway: tense and guarded. 

He backs into Simmons as he steps away from his locker, jumps when his shoulders brush against Simmons’ chest. He didn’t realize he was standing so close, neck-breathing distance. That all gets nastily confirmed when Simmons locks his arm around Fusco’s throat, yanks him backwards, tight against Simmons’ chest.

“You’re not gonna work out like that, are you?” he purrs in Fusco’s ear.

“Like  _ what _ ?” Fusco snarls, sounding bolder than he feels. That’s a thing animals do, he knows. Dogs and birds and fish and human animals too. When they’re scared, they try to make themselves look bigger than they are. Pretty obvious if you know what to look for, but it works sometimes. “Don’t you have anything better to do than play grab-ass in the locker room?”

Simmons knows what to look for, he guesses, ‘cause doesn’t seem all that fazed; he grabs the hem of Fusco’s t-shirt and hikes it up to his ribs, unveils the swollen, bruised skin like it’s a magic trick. “You’re gonna hurt yourself, ignoring that,” he remarks casually, scraping his his nails over Fusco’s battered ribs with no particular care.

Fusco twitches, tries his best to inch away from Simmons’ probing fingers. “Never knew you to ask after my health,” he spits.

“Well, we can catch up on that right now,” Simmons says, twisting his thumb inexorably against Fusco’s ribs. “How you feeling, Fusco?”

“Not good,” he grunts. “There’s some jackass pawing at me.” Fusco aims a kick at his shins, misses. Simmons tsks at him gently, drives his foot into the back of Fusco’s knee and makes him go limp, whining with pain.

“Who did that to you, Fusco?” Simmons asks him as he hauls Fusco away from the lockers, slings him over the bench that runs down the middle of the aisle. “Who busted up your ribs, I mean. I know who hurt your leg.”

They didn’t get to know each other all that well, Fusco and the guy who busted up his ribs. He just got a call from Finch saying _ go here _ , so Fusco went, and then this guy, this  _ chucklefuck _ , caught him by surprise with...well, Fusco’s not sure. Could’ve been a pipe, could’ve been a crowbar, maybe a big wrench. Fusco didn’t really make a note of it. What mattered was that Mr. Chucklefuck aimed for the ribs instead of the head. When Fusco got control of the metal whatever a few seconds later, he sure didn’t make the same mistake. 

Anyway, he’d been leaning on the wall, wheezing his heart out, and Reese’s hand fell hard on his shoulder. Fusco turned to find Reese peering at him, eyes wide and curious, blood on his neck, staining his white shirt collar.

“You OK?” he asked.

Fusco nodded, coughed.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Fusco rasped out after a moment.

Reese’s hand drifted down his back, patted gently. “You don’t need a ride to the hospital or anything?”

“Buddy, I got it,” he groaned, gripping the wall.

And then Reese scraped Mr. Chucklefuck off the floor and left Fusco to lick his own wounds.

So Fusco doesn’t have an answer. Not one Simmons will accept.

He tries to push himself off the bench, meets resistance in the form of Simmons’ hard, calloused hand on the back of his neck, pinning him. “Who did it to you, Lionel?” he asks, pinching the skin there like a mother cat grips a kitten.

“Nobody did anything to me,” Fusco says, voice cramped and crushed. “It’s no big deal.”

“ _ No big deal? _ ” Simmons repeats, fake-astonished, fake-tender. “Doesn’t look like  _ no big deal _ to me. Looks like you maybe cracked a couple of ribs.” He slaps his open palm against Fusco’s ribs, makes him wince and twist in Simmons’ grip.

“I’m fine,” he chokes out, breathless. “For real, I’m fine. Let me up.”

But Simmons scents blood now, sinks his fingertips as hard against Fusco’s ribs as he can and pushing  _ up  _ until Fusco’s vision whites out, until he’s screaming into the bench, until he can’t even do that anymore because Simmons is pressing down too hard on his throat.

“But that’s no big deal,” Simmons says, tousling Fusco’s hair. “It’s a little loud for no big deal, but I guess you’re ticklish. See, now, if I do that again…”

Fusco’s whole body buckles trying to flinch away from him but Simmons’ bony knee sinks into the small of his back, pins him fast, gives Fusco a swift punch right in the ribs that leaves him wheezing, airless, helpless to do anything other than lie there and twitch as Simmons makes a study of his broken ribs: prods at ‘em, presses on ‘em, grabs a handful of Fusco’s swollen flesh and twists hard. Fusco can hear himself crying out in pain - short, sharp screams dragged out of the depths of him - and wonders how no one comes, how it is that everyone in this place is so nutless not one guy comes to help because helping means you’re next on the bench.

“Come on, Lionel,” Simmons breathes hot in his ear, “you can tell me.”

Fusco bites down hard on his lower lip, braces himself for what he knows is coming.

It’s not enough. He’s pretty sure that when Simmons punches him again, it breaks another rib.

He’s not sure what happens after that, just that he’s draped loose over the bench, that he has a smell like blood in the back of his throat, that Simmons is kneeling in front of him, face to face, stroking Fusco’s hair again like he’s a sick kid.

Fusco realizes he hasn’t seen Simmons’ face even once since this started; if Fusco could look away from him, he could pretend it wasn’t happening. He wasn’t afraid. Simmons doesn’t look angry, although his bony, hawkish face kinda tends that way. He’s calm, half-curious, half-sad.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me who hurt you?” Simmons asks, scratching light and ticklish at the back of Fusco’s head. His voice fills up with false kindness and it’s bone-chilling.

Silent, determined, Fusco shakes his head against the bench.

“‘S OK.” Simmons rests his hand on Fusco’s cheek, brushes a tear away from his eye. Fusco feels his skin begin to burn, angry, humiliated. “You don’t have to tell me. But Lionel,” he says, and his grip closes strong on Fusco’s cheek, pins his head down, pushes up under Fusco’s eyebrow so his eye won’t quite close, “you belong to us. You know that, right? If somebody else is marking you up - or getting you marked up - we aren’t gonna let that happen to you. ‘Cause you’re ours, Lionel. For life.” He relaxes his grip, pets Fusco’s cheek real gentle.

That’s back page news too. Not because it’s no big deal, but because Fusco wants it buried. He struggles to push himself up off the bench, but Simmons guides him back down, real easy, and scratches between Fusco’s shoulders. “Don’t push yourself,” he soothes. “You take your time. And, uh,” Simmons leans in real close, voice drops to something even lower than a whisper, so soft it’s barely words, “if this is what no big deal is to you…” and Simmons pats him on the back, “...you come see me and I’ll give you something to cry about.”

One parting slap right between the shoulder blades and he’s gone. Fusco listens to the water dripping in the showers, the hum of the fluorescent lights. Much as he hates it, he follows Simmons’ instructions. He takes his time.

He waits until he can sit up without tears springing to his eyes, waits until he can stand without coughing. He leans on a locker room sink and splashes water on his face, waits for the redness in his eyes to go.

He plans to wait until there’s no tell-tale crackle in his breathing, but that doesn’t seem to be letting up, so he just picks his moment as best he can. ‘Cause he’s off-the-books hurt, he reminds himself as he walks out of the locker room as carefully as he can, as he says goodnight to Carter and greets the next shift as they settle in and makes plans with a buddy on the way out the door. 

He’s off-the-books, and that means he can keep it together until he gets home.


End file.
